


Feather, Feather

by threewalls



Series: Angels and Demons [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XII, Final Fantasy XII: Revenant Wings
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Feathers & Featherplay, Gen, Healing, Injury, Partnership, Wingfic, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Fran was grateful she did not have to waste time considering what he would have wanted. She had been warder, not salve-maker. Pirate was new to her, as new as it was to Balthier, though he insisted it was not. But the gambits he had given her guided her hands.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Feather, Feather

Fran carried Balthier to an alcove, laid him down on his front, folding his arms under his face. He had taken the brunt of the bomb-blast, always ready to play decoy, to trust in her greater experience with a bow. Balthier was Captain, he chose their gambits: he healed before shooting, she shot before healing. Fran trusted in his choices even when they came to this, because now they had, and though he was injured and unconscious, he still breathed.

Fran was grateful she did not have to waste time considering what he would have wanted. She had been warder, not salve-maker. Pirate was new to her, as new as it was to Balthier, though he insisted it was not. But the gambits he had given her guided her hands. Kneeling beside him, she threaded her dagger through the strings of his charred vest, cutting them all with one tug away from his spine. With a wary eye on the temple gloom, Fran ripped through his shirt.

And she found-- less shrapnel than _feathers_ : tawny, black-brown, the colour of the hair on his body, not his head, speckled darker where his blood coloured them. Balthier had two wings upon his back, each no longer than his arms. Fran cut the leather strap binding them, easing them open with potion splashes. His body was slimmer than she'd thought, with the bulk of his wings spread; the skin of his back was pink, barely scratched, soft to the touch.

Balthier groaned. His eyes suddenly opening, he curled up, rolling away from her hands.

"Can you move?" Fran asked.

"I-- yes," he said, his teeth grit.

Fran stood within reach, watching as Balthier himself stood, carefully, under his own power before lounging back against the stone. Balthier did not look at her, but out at the corridor shadows, the flickering grey-green light from torch-sconces.

"The moogle map says we've another two levels to descend. I say we retrace our steps to the entrance and regroup at the ship. Rabanastre's closest for supplies, but we'll need to make double time on our second foray to meet our dear patron's deadline, but I find myself rudely reminded that fortune favours the prepared."

Balthier tilted his head left and right, stretching the muscles of his neck. This familiar movement now included a shrug of his shoulders, the bounce of feathered wings. Fran noted that he did not seem to favour either side.

"What say you, Fran?"

"Yes, Captain."

That made him look at her, his expression as unreadable to her as his scent. His feather musk explained a tang to his presence that Fran had never yet placed. The viera had stories of the aegyl, hume-bodied but winged like birds, but the stories were old. Fran had long thought the tale of She-who-was-Lost and the Feol a transparent parable, one told to warn kittens of the dangers of exogamy, to combat the seduction of smooth skin, warm scale and musky feather.

Balthier also smelt familiarly of gunpowder and ozone-- and of dry blood, not wet, and in the moment, that was all Fran asked to know.

"On my mark," he said.

Fran readied her bow, arrow in hand, and waited for his call to follow.


End file.
